


Heaven and Hell

by sappho_42



Category: 14th Century CE RPF, Good Omens (TV), Richard II - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Angel & Demon Interactions, Angels, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Demons, Gen, Heaven & Hell, Work In Progress, angel!richard, demon!Henry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:35:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23422534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sappho_42/pseuds/sappho_42
Summary: Richard is an Archangel, being approached by Henry, a lowly demon.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this has been in my drafts for like a year. i may never finish it but it was a really good idea...

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

As above, so below.

And in this case, “above” and “below” were truer than most. Heaven and hell were about to witness quite the interesting reaction.

Richard was an archangel, one of god’s right-hand men— well, angels, but seeing as Richard preferred a human form over the dazzling array of others he had the power to wear, it seemed appropriate. There were not many angels who were given the title of Archangel, and it was a title Richard wore with honor. Bigger wings, a prominent halo (despite mortal myths, not everyone in Heaven wears haloes— it’s a status thing), and, of course, a private office with a private line to the Big Guy herself. In short, it put him at the top of the celestial hierarchy.

An improbably white porcelain rotary phone was the physical manifestation of that private line. It sat patiently on a marble desk, next to the gleaming nameplate. Depending on who you are, it could say many different things. Most angels, however, read it as “The Archangel Richard, Wielder of the Divine Sceptre, Wearer of the Firelight Crown That the Everlasting Hath Given Unto Him, etc.” and other such mumbo-jumbo as befit an entity with too much time on their hands.

Richard was perusing a copy of the Celestial Inquirer (daily edition; inscribed on only the smoothest of stone tablets) which, like every other issue, had been Miracled into floating upright so that a busy angel could simply sit and read without hands (very helpful when you have assumed a form without opposable thumbs). Slippers crossed carelessly one over another under the billowing white robes. One hand holding a china cup of perfectly-warm tea while the other held a matching saucer underneath. He had just been enjoying a little thinkpiece on feather grooming when the engraved letters changed.

This was not unusual, of course. The Almighty had a habit of not contacting her followers directly, and rather morphing what media they were currently interacting with to suit her desires. Richard didn’t know how she did it— perhaps no archangel did. Part of the whole mysterious ways, ineffable plan schtick she had going on.

PR was very good at that campaign, Richard mused to himself before the letters re-solidified.

“Archangel Richard,” read the newly-formed memo, “the Metatron asks that you arbitrate an affair of the principalities. You shall learn of their dispute and their location presently—“ and suddenly, Richard knew— “for it is a terrible thing to have dissention in the ranks of Heaven. May She smile upon you. The Metatron.” Richard winced, perhaps at the formal closing, or perhaps at the Metatron’s continual third-person conceit. Just because one is the voice of God does not mean one ought to have such a high opinion of oneself— one is just a glorified megaphone. Richard stood and unfurled his wings. Archangels do all of the real work, but none of us claim credit for Her doings. Metatron probably doesn’t even speak directly to Her. But orders are orders. Richard stepped through his office door, shut it tightly behind him, and began to weave through the bureaucratic halls of Heaven where every angel worked.


	2. Chapter 2

In the foyer of this Heavenly office building was a chandelier, hanging precariously in the center of the circular room and overlooking a balcony where angels could watch the goings-on below from a story up. Plain marble columns stood sentinel around the perimeter, stretching up as far as the human eye could see, and the spiral stairs that descended to the ground on either side were ant-like compared to the gilded revolving door in the front. Angels in sharp, official robes walked across the marble floor noiselessly. (Most angels, Richard included, had not spent long enough on Earth to realize that humans actually touched the ground when they walked—hence pristine silence was often found in the busy foyer.)

Very few people ought to have been in the foyer, most angels being busy in their cubicles at this time of day. But Richard had extraordinary orders to fulfill, so twenty or so angels, his personal host, were currently encircling the room a few feet in the air. Richard himself stood on the balcony, and all of their collective eyes stared into the colorful group on the ground.

If angels were prone to chattering, they would be chattering about the two demons.

One was an ancient demon, covered in its own rotting flesh and wearing an old-fashioned sort of suit which Hell hadn’t issued in centuries. He shuffled like a zombie, and kept a hand on the other demon’s shoulder. A fly circled him, and Richard wasn’t sure if this was a gift from Beelzebub or the natural result of smelling like death.

The other demon, much livelier. His make was much newer, Richard thought, and nearly familiar. Perhaps we were created together. But the demon’s clanking suit of armor and bloodied tabard made it hard to see a resemblance. Scars and stubble peppered his face, and his yellow slitted eyes glinted up at Richard from below. Something familiar. Then the yellow eyes lowered, and Richard remembered to resume breathing. I must have known him before he Fell.

Richard narrowed his eyes. _Are you sure this is the dispute I am to arbitrate?_ he thought at the Metatron. _Indubitably_ , responded the booming voice instantly. _The defendants have specifically requested your intervention, so the Metatron has taken the liberty of assigning them to you_. Richard sighed, wondering why the Voice of God was taking liberties at all, and especially with an Archangel’s time.

 _The Metatron heard that_. And then Richard’s head was left with the buzzing of a hung-up phone.

 _Fuck off_ , Richard thought. (No response.)

Then aloud: “The Archangel Ricardus Secundus, Wielder of the Divine Sceptre, Wearer of the Firelight Crown That the Everlasting Hath Given Unto Him, bids you welcome to the Annex of Heaven, foul demons,” —glanced again into those blinding eyes—“and esteemed fellow angels.” The plaintiff looked up to Richard now, his eyes familiar too. But unlike the snakelike pupils of a demon, the plaintiff angel’s eyes were beautifully, relievingly human.

Mowbray, full name Thomas Moubraius, had some minor title in the hierarchy of Heaven, judging by the cape pinned to his standard white robes. He held himself with importance, the outsized-ness of which Richard couldn’t, and didn’t care to ascertain. There were so many obscure angelic ranks (some of which he’d invented himself), and most of their duties translated roughly to “make the wearer feel special”. Currently, Duke(???) Mowbray was twisting a lock of shoulder-length brown hair in impatience. A member of Richard’s host cleared his throat. “Plaintiff Mowbray. Defendant…?”

“Bolingbroke,” said the demon.

“Bowling… broak… ” the host muttered as he summoned a translucent light tablet and began scribbling the mispronounced name with a finger.

The older demon shambled forward, and in a surprisingly powerful voice, he said, “Bolingbroke. Bulling. Brook.” He let it ring out in the hall, before adding a bit peremptorily, “Of the Annex of Hell.”

The member of the host who was acting as marshal (full name Wilhelmus Busseius, nickname Bushy) cocked an eyebrow. “Yes,” he said slowly. “We know.” The explanation was hardly necessary. Everyone had known since the hellish pair had walked in. There were probably some hovering angels right now whose twisted expressions wondered why in God’s name were two demons in Heaven and being treated as equals before the archangel. But, just as it was in all other aspects of Heaven, an angel followed orders.

After a second or two of tense air, Richard pointed to the demons. “The defendant may begin,” he ordered. Every guard tensed, and if he had been able to stare up at anything besides the archangel, Bolingbroke might have detected a glint of blades being readied. A tight grip on his shoulder brought him to his senses. Under the boring eyes of a roomful of angels, Bolingbroke stepped forward and began. “Your Brilliance. You know I would not have come here on a petty matter.”


	3. Chapter 3

Richard tilted his head, and gestured for Bolingbroke to continue.

“Your Brilliance— I am aware that I am but a lowly demon. You have no reason to take my word for any value.” Richard cocked an eyebrow. Of course, he had a better reason than any other angel here to listen to Bolingbroke. But nothing on his face betrayed their acquaintance.

“I come before you to accuse Mowbray,“ — _yes, as if there had been any doubt_ — “of conspiring against Your Brilliance, of stealing Your Brilliance’s flaming sword, and of imprisoning Gloucester.” 

The name “Gloucester” carried a near-tangible weight to Richard — _could Bolingbroke know? No, that would be impossible._ The angels of his host, aware of the Gloucester controversy, were tactfully avoiding either Richard’s or Bolingbroke’s eyes, lest they be thought to sympathize with the other. In fact, most of them seemed to pin their hopes on Mowbray’s reply. Privately, Richard thought the moment had passed for Mowbray’s indignant act.

It certainly rang a bit false when Mowbray hastily replied, “Your Brilliance, he lies!” The plaintiff angel took a moment to remember himself, then continued.

“I have committed no crime against you and Heaven! Of course, I heard of the conspiracy against Gloucester— who here didn’t? But that you would even believe— how could you believe a demon’s word against mine? You know that all my quarrels with my good fellow Gloucester ended well before his tragic imprisonment.” _Ah, Mowbray, patron angel of believability_. Richard would have interjected here, but Bolingbroke, already incensed, was faster.

“Stuff your words down your lying throat,” he hissed.

“I am no liar. Your Brilliance, Your good Holiness, this foul demon is abusing me—“

“Stop sucking up to Richard and answer me.”

“I do not suck up! _You’re_ the one who comes in stinking of brimstone and death and you expect to be taken seriously.”

“You expect to appeal to your angel friends to get around _justice_?”

“I am a Good upstanding angel, thou miscreant demon!” (When angels get angry, they often forget how modern humans speak and revert to Biblical patterns. It’s a useful barometer for many things.)

In Mowbray’s case, however, no barometer was needed. The human-like irises that angels tend to wear began to warp and distort, and Bolingbroke stared as they became points of flickering white flame— almost as hot as his rage. Instinctively, Bolingbroke lowered himself and shifted his closed wings. Mowbray noticed, and smiled a remarkably devilish smile for an angel. Bolingbroke would have lunged forward had he not remembered the company he was in.

Instead, Bolingbroke ripped the corner off of his tabard and cast it to the immaculate marble floor. The cloth blackened and shriveled in seconds, but the point was made. Bolingbroke was challenging his honor as a servant of God. Mowbray’s eyes flashed as he unfurled his wings. He threw down his cape. Bolingbroke snarled in a nearly-animalistic glee. Mowbray had accepted the challenge, and both were ready for shit to go down. 

Bolingbroke was about to lunge forward when Richard spoke.

“Enough!” His command echoed, ghostlike, in the chamber, and when the would-be combatants looked up at him, his wings were fully extended to match this show of authority. Mowbray and Bolingbroke both fell to their knees, Bolingbroke wincing. Privately, Richard was getting sick of seeing them posture. “We will have no fighting between Heaven and Hell. Since we have heard both of your cases, and found no evidence to support either, we shall dismiss—“

“Dismiss?!” Bolingbroke was furious. “Your Brilliance, this angel is a traitor—“

“This demon has besmirched my name!” Mowbray cut in. “I must be allowed to take my revenge!”

Richard sighed. _Of course they wanted to drag it out._ “Fine. But you will not answer each other’s challenges today,” he said, more than a little snappishly. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned a floating stone calendar. “On the—” (he looked for a day that didn’t have a meeting scheduled) “—Feast of St. Lambert, we shall see Mowbray and Bolingbroke fight for their honors.” The assembled angels murmured to each other. From where Bolingbroke stood, Richard seemed quite satisfied with this solution. 

Mowbray and Bolingbroke bowed their heads in assent. Out of the corner of his eye, Bolingbroke saw a look of concern cross Gaunt’s face. The ragged demon didn’t seem to be holding up well in Heaven. Bolingbroke resolved that they would leave as soon as possible.

“Yes, Your Brilliance,” said Mowbray. 

“Yes, Your Brilliance,” echoed Bolingbroke. 

“You are all free to go,” Richard announced, and turned away and disappeared from sight. His host dispersed, some of them following Richard, others leaving to their own private offices, some taking flight. Mowbray took a moment to shoot Bolingbroke a nasty look before taking off with a flap of his white-feathered wings. Just like that, the previously-full chamber was cleared, except for the two demons. 

Bolingbroke ran to Gaunt. “Are you okay?”

It is worth remembering here that Holy objects are painful to touch for demons and other such denizens of Hell. Heaven, being the Holiest of places, was like being trapped in a steadily-heating sauna whose temperature attendant had stepped outside for a coffee break. Bolingbroke felt a searing heat with every step, but Gaunt looked like he’d been trapped in the celestial sauna for weeks.

Perhaps it is also worth noting that the amount of pain a demon can feel from touching Holy objects is somewhat influenced by the length of time they’ve spent in their current incarnation. Physical forms are weak, and require will to maintain. Gaunt, being a Hellish bureaucrat, had probably not needed to change his physical form for centuries. 

As a result, he was oozing onto the floor a little.

“Never felt better,” Gaunt croaked. He noticed Bolingbroke looking at his slowly-melting illusory feet. “Ah, _shirt_ *, sorry you had to see that.” With a face of concentration, Gaunt managed to re-form his oozings into feet.

(*Swearing is not allowed in Heaven. Whenever any being in Heaven is about to swear, God uses her perfect foresight and her all-encompassing omnipotence to make them say a related, but less obscene, word or phrase. The Metatron will also automatically inform the being telepathically of what has just occurred. It’s useful the first time, like a video game tutorial. However, the mental noise that is generated from repeatedly swearing in Heaven is rather confusing and tedious, so the editor of this account has taken the liberty of omitting all such messages from the Metatron. You’re welcome. _—ed._ )

“We need to leave,” Bolingbroke said. 

“Demon Bolingbroke, the Archangel has requested your presence.” Bushy had reappeared on the dais, and he was obviously pleased with himself for standing there. 

Bolingbroke sighed. “Go back without me. I’ll tell you how it goes.” 

“I’m staying until you come out.” 

“No! I don’t want to test how long you can be here!”

“I don’t trust Richard any farther than I can throw him. He’s planning something on St. Lambert’s—“ From above, Bushy cleared his throat. Gaunt glared at him before continuing. “Point is, I’m not leaving you here alone.” His croaking voice hid a strong resolution, Bolingbroke knew, and he wasn’t in the mood to fight it. Besides, the archangel would be getting impatient. 

“Fine. I’ll be quick.” 

Bolingbroke took the spiral staircase up.


End file.
